


Nochebuena

by canis_m



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Coming Out, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, F/M, Family Dynamics, Future Fic, mothers and sons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-30 05:10:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17217620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canis_m/pseuds/canis_m
Summary: The Bensons and the Barbas share a cabin in the Catskills on Christmas Eve.A gift fic for barsonaddict in the 2018 Secret Santa Exchange.





	1. Chapter 1

Snow starts to fall when they're on I-87, big, fat flakes that melt on the asphalt and the windshield of the rented Expedition. The wipers sweep over the glass as Olivia flicks them on.

"Here it comes," says Lucía, finger wagging. "Three to five inches, that's what the weather said."

Olivia can practically hear Noah squirming in the back seat. "Is that enough for sledding?"

"Plenty." She'd wanted to leave sooner, but her "half day" at the precinct had turned into two-thirds of a day, and it was mid-afternoon by the time Noah, Rafael, and Rafael's mother—and all their luggage, Christmas presents and grocery sacks included—were loaded into the car.

"How much farther?" Noah asks. It's not a whine, quite. Merely an inquiry.

"At least another hour," says Rafael.

"How come they're called the Catskills?" Noah sounds both leery and intrigued. "Did people kill cats there?"

"Good question. Let's investigate, shall we?" In the rear-view mirror she sees Rafael frowning over his phone. "Aha. The area is not named for cat murder. In Dutch, 'catskill' means 'cat creek.'"

"Why'd they name it in Dutch?"

Rafael launches into a more exacting (if condensed) history of the state's early invasive Europeans than Noah had probably banked on. Olivia smiles and keeps her eyes on the road. She'd loaded the iPad with movies, but so far Rafael has kept Noah occupied without resorting to screen time. The back seat contingent's doing fine.

In the front seat Lucía clutches her purse. "I hope to God I didn't forget anything."

"With all those bags?" says Rafael, who'd helped load them. "I'm sure you didn't."

"It's not like there's a Latino market in—what is it, Claryville?"

"If we're missing something, we'll improvise," Olivia says. They won't go thirsty, if nothing else; at least one whole tote's devoted to wine (reds and sparkling), scotch, rum, and a bottle of some homemade concoction courtesy of Lucía. "If we get there before the roads turn bad, I'll drink to that."

*

They stop at a tree farm just outside Claryville. Pickings are slim on the 23rd, and Noah has to be talked down to a tree that'll fit in an SUV already crammed to the gills. They settle on a three-foot Douglas fir—a little lopsided, maybe, but still handsome. With effort Olivia gets it wedged between Rafael and Noah in the back seat. The scent of evergreen permeates the interior of the car.

"Just a few more miles," Rafael tells Noah, and sure enough, as twilight falls they pull onto the narrow dirt drive, one that curves uphill through beckoning trees to the cabin at its end.

A white dust of snow covers the ground. The cabin looks the way it had in pictures, like a tired city-dweller's dream of a woodland retreat. Dark logs brace the roof of the porch, where Adirondack chairs and a small table sit. A wreath of freshly cut cedar, ribboned in red, hangs on the door.

The instant Olivia shuts off the car, Noah launches himself toward the porch. "It looks like a gingerbread house!"

The rest of them follow more slowly, shouldering their various burdens. Noah dashes onto the porch and peers through the window, breath fogging the glass.

"I think it's bigger than the other one."

"What other one?" asks Lucía, sack of groceries cradled like an infant in her arms.

"The one I went to with Grandma Sheila."

Olivia tenses, almost fumbling the key in her hand—she can feel Rafael's gaze on her from behind, feel its weight of concern—but she gets the door open, and reminds Noah to take off his boots before he tracks snow all over the floor. In stocking feet he zooms through the cabin, exclaiming at the size of the stone fireplace in the living room. A cathedral ceiling stretches up to peak over the loft. When Olivia turns on the lights, its warm wooden beams seem to kindle and glow.

Noah skids back into view. "Can we build a fire?"

A supply of firewood waits, neatly stacked, by the stone hearth. There's more on the porch outside. "We will," Olivia promises. "After we unload the car."

*

With some trial and error—and more advice from both Barbas than is strictly necessary—she gets a fire going. Its cheerful crackle brightens the room. They find a spot for the little tree on an end table, and give it a strand of colored lights and a garland of satin ribbon before piling the unloaded presents underneath. Noah bounces on the plaid sofa, mourning that it's too dark to go outside.

"Just think," Olivia says, "when you wake up tomorrow, everything'll be covered in white, and you can go sledding. We can have a snowball fight. You and me versus Rafa and Tia Lucía."

"Oh no," says Lucía. "No snowballs for me. I'm on kitchen duty."

Olivia raises her eyebrows at Noah, then at Rafael. "I guess Rafa's a one-man team."

"Objection," says Rafael. "Unfair advantage." He pauses in the doorway to the kitchen, hand on the frame. "Anyone else hungry?"

Noah flails. "Me!"

Dinner is an indoor picnic of sorts: deli sandwiches and soup reheated on the stove, so no one has to worry about cooking tonight. Noah eyes the cranberry relish on his turkey sandwich with suspicion, but after tasting it, he eats without complaint.

Lucía points a finger at him from around her glass of Beaujolais. "You better save some appetite for tomorrow, kiddo, 'cause Tia Lucía's not messing around."

"What are you making?"

"Well, it's a kind of pork roast. If you've ever had a pulled pork sandwich—"

"Lechón asado," says Rafael, with deep relish, as if the word itself is delectable to pronounce. "Steeped in mojo. Slow roasted for hours, until the meat falls off the bone." He pinches his hand and opens it, a chef's kiss minus the kiss. "Remember what we had for dinner last year?"

"Nuh-uh."

"Jamon. Y boniatos y judías verdes."

"Oh yeah!"

The memory startles Olivia. Not the fact that Rafael remembers what they ate, down to the last green bean, but the strangeness of remembering that they'd been together then, last Christmas Eve, without yet being together. His mother had gone to Miami, a case had kept him in New York, and Olivia had offered, hesitant: _if you want to have dinner with us...._

He'd still been Uncle Rafa to Noah then. Now he's just Rafa, and his mother is Tía, because it rhymes with Lucía (which pleases Noah), and because Olivia's wary of attaching the title Grandma to anyone. Maybe Lucía herself isn't ready to be abuelita to a boy who's no relation of hers, yet, in the eyes of the law.

Rafael plants both elbows on the table. "Lechón asado will take that ham to the cleaners. It'll knock that ham out of the park."

By now Lucía's laughing. "Heyyy, easy on the hype. It's been a few years since—"

She trails off. Her laughter wanes, and she presses her lips into one another, the way Rafael sometimes does when he's withholding some emotion, or trying to, even as it invariably shows in his eyes. Rafael puts a hand on her arm, then turns again to Noah.

"A grand jury would indict that ham for not being lechón asado."

Noah giggles. Olivia levels a look of mild reproof. "I thought the ham we had was pretty good."

"No one's saying it wasn't. But there's ham, and then there's...." He dangles the pause in front of Noah like bait.

"Lechón asado!" Noah yelps, without having tasted it once.

Rafael's eye catches Olivia's across the table. She tamps down a smile and gives him the nod he's looking for, one that says _smooth, very smooth._ Rafael's chin moves in a tiny pleased-with-himself waggle, and he sits back with satisfaction in his chair.

Lucía balls up her sandwich wrapper. "Well, I'd hate to disappoint, so I better get started."

Olivia blinks. "What, tonight?"

"Oh, yes. The meat has to marinate."

"Can I help?"

"No, no, no. You worked all day and got us here in one piece. Go sit, go put your feet up."

After clearing the table, Rafael draws Olivia aside. "Best not to argue."

"I'm not arguing."

"I know. And I know you're used to taking the wheel."

"Believe me, I am more than happy to put my feet up." By way of proof Olivia refills her wine glass and flops into the easy chair in the living room, slippered feet propped on the ottoman, toes pointing toward the roof. The chair's enormous, big enough for two if you're feeling cozy, upholstered in plaid to match the generous sofa. Noah clambers into the space beside her, nestling into the crook of her arm.

"What's Grandma Sheila doing for Christmas?" he asks, as if it's just now occurred to him to wonder.

Olivia's last swallow of wine threatens to come back up. "Staying in, I would think," she says, sounding less perturbed than she feels. "But I'm sure they have...activities...at the place where she's staying."

"Do you think she got the card I made?"

"I'm sure she did."

She's about ready to reach for the remote, turn on the TV, put on _Home Alone_ or _Frosty the Snowman_ or any other distraction she can find, when Rafael discovers the game cabinet, and calls Noah to come and look. Noah immediately lobbies for a round of Uno.

"Uno," echoes Rafael. "You sure about that? Sure you didn't mean to say 'Scrabble'?"

"Scrabble's boring. And you always win."

"All the more reason to practice," says Rafael. "So you can finally, triumphantly defeat me after years of—"

"Uno!" declares Noah. He snatches up the box of cards and shuts the cabinet door.

Olivia makes her way back to the table, glass in hand. On the way she drapes her arm around Rafael's waist, hugging him to her in silent thanks. 

*

In the middle of night she starts awake. There's no bedside clock, only her phone face-down next to Rafael's on the bedside table, and she doesn't look at either of them. She lies there, bracing herself against her thudding heart. 

Rafael is quiet beside her, a good sleeper when he's not haunted by future or present or past. Increasingly so, over the months since he's changed jobs and become a fixture in her bed. His presence goes some way to calm her, but only some. Olivia slides out from the warmth of the covers, wraps a cardigan around her and creeps out of the room.

She makes a round of the main floor of the cabin, reassuring herself with the sight of Noah's boots, still by the door; his coat, still in the front closet; the Expedition, now shrouded in white, parked and silent in the drive outside. The snow's stopped, for now, and a muted moon glows faintly through cloud cover. She stops at the foot of the stairs to the loft, one hand on the hewn wood banister. For a long while she stands there, listening, as if even from this distance her straining ears might catch the sound of Noah's breathing from above.

It's the chill that finally drives her back to bed. When she crawls under the comforter, Rafael rolls toward her. His whisper is drowsy, and no less concerned for that.

"You okay?"

She wishes she'd at least pretended to use the bathroom. Flushed her paranoia down the drain. "All good."

In the thin moonlight from the window she can almost see the soft lines of his face, the wry and gentle skepticism in them. 

"Just...having an irrational moment," she amends. 

He sees straight through to her fear. "They wouldn't get far. My mother hasn't driven a car in years." 

Chagrined, Olivia rolls to stare at the ceiling. "I know your mom's not really gonna run off with my kid."

He reaches for her. She resists for a split second, then lets herself be drawn. His hand strokes her side, up and down, down to the curve of her hip and over it. 

"How much snow'd we get?"

"Three inches?"

"Noah'll be happy."

"He will."

"Hey," he says, very softly, "It's okay."

And it is, then, or nearly so. Rafael presses his mouth to her shoulder, as if to kiss her skin through the cotton of her shirt. His hand lingers on her hip.

"You want some help getting back to dreamland?" 

The offer's not even salacious, just playful, conspiratorial, laced with daring awareness of the sleepers upstairs. Olivia thinks about it, about letting his long fingers work their magic, but right now she wants to hold on more than she wants get off. Wants to clutch some dear thing close to her. 

Uncertainly she lifts her arm. "Maybe just..."

He offers himself to that need, too, scooting in and tucking his head to her breast, rubbing his cheek against her like a cat. After settling he starts to whisper to her, almost singsong, with scarcely any voice.

_"A la nanita nana nanita ea, nanita ea. Tu niño tiene sueño, bendito sea, bendito sea."_

Olivia knows the lullaby, has heard him murmur it to Noah, the way his mother and grandmother must've murmured it to him. She hears the nightingale in the forest, the clear running of the spring. She wraps her arm around his head and holds him, stroking, pressing her face to his hair, until the last of the restless tension in her eases, and her heart quiets under her ribs.

*

The next time she wakes, there's a faint, delicious smell in the air, and a conspicuous space beside her. After a minute's disorientation, she remembers where she is, and why she doesn't need to lurch out of bed. She stretches her legs languorously under the covers. Cracking open one eye, she blinks at the brightness of the light streaming through the little window, and finds Rafael at the foot of the bed.

He's already dressed, sort of, in sweatpants and sweatshirt, pulling a second pair of thicker socks over the ones on his feet. He hasn't bothered with his hair beyond running a comb through it, which means it's destined to go under a hat in short order. When he sees her awake, he crawls up the bed and hunkers into the narrow space beside her. He kisses her good morning, morning breath and all.

"My mom's in the kitchen. There's eggs and toast. Noah's eager to get started on the snow fort. I promised to help."

She peers at the time display on her phone. "How'd I sleep so late?"

"Means you needed it."

"I guess I did." She stretches her arms, then lets them flop atop the comforter, hands down. "You go ahead. I'll be out in a bit."

A portion of eggs is waiting for her, covered on the stove, when she finally makes it to the kitchen. The toast is cinnamon raisin. After eating Olivia puts her plate in the dishwasher, then hovers. Lucía's at the sink, rinsing a bowlful of black beans.

"Going out with the boys?"

"I am," Olivia says, "if you're sure there's nothing for me to do."

"All under control. Salad and wine, that's what you're in charge of." Lucía's crooked smile as she turns is uncannily familiar. "It looks like more of a production than it is. I cheated on dessert. There's this bakery in Woodside, their rum cake is better than anything I could ever make. I was never a baker, you know? Cooking, sure. Baking, forget about it. My mother, she could do it."

"If Noah and I bake, it's cookie dough out of a tube," Olivia admits.

"Who has time for anything else? When we're retired, maybe." Lucía turns back to the beans. "Go on, go make sure they don't wind up falling in the creek."

* 

Under Noah's direction, the snow fort shifts mid-construction into a snow ramp for sled-launching purposes. Rafael survives three madcap downhill plunges in a saucer without hitting any trees, and three treks back up the interminable hill without his heart or lungs giving out, though on the uphill slogs he gets winded. Between ski pants and hat and thermal underwear, he hasn't even frozen any bits off, though his nose is sniveling, and probably florid red.

Noah's having a blast, that's the important point—the point of being in the woods instead of the city—and Rafael thinks he's acquitted himself without shame. Everything's sugarplums, right up until Olivia sneaks up behind him and stuffs snow down the collar of his coat.

Rafael shrieks. There's no other word for it. Icy wetness slides down his spine, searing his skin. He scrabbles at his neck with gloved hands.

"You fiend," he rasps. "Diabolical—"

She scuffles away, grinning like some sort of radiant snow imp, and ducks behind the trunk of a tree. 

"Gotcha," she says.

"Oh, this won't stand." With a swoop of his arm Rafael scoops up snow in a handful, mashing it into a projectile ball. "Noah, are you with me?"

"Yeah!"

Olivia swaggers out from behind the tree. "Sure, I'll take you both on." Her parka's the puffy kind, stuffed with down. The ball on top of her pink stocking cap flounces pertly. "I'll take you both out."

Her aim's better than his and Noah's combined. Aim, speed, merciless accuracy—hasn't she done time on the NYPD softball team? More like hardball, thinks Rafael. She knows how to use cover to her advantage, too. Noah shows no compunction about flinging volley after volley against the only mother he's ever known, but few of his throws even graze the target. After taking a second snowball to the chin, Rafael raises an arm to wheeze for time out.

"Bathroom break," he calls weakly, and trudges back to the cabin.

As he closes the porch door, warmth envelops him, and with it the smell of roast pork and spices: garlic and cumin and oregano. For an instant he's transported, back to childhood in his grandmother's cramped apartment, alight with tinsel and bodies swaying, _deseando a todos mil felicidades_ ringing from the record player on the shelf. 

The same album's playing now from his phone, left on the table with a portable speaker so his mother can have music while she cooks. Rafael sheds coat and boots and ski pants with relief—the pants are a relic of ski trips past, too snug now around the middle—and ducks into the bathroom. He emerges to find his mother in the kitchen, ground peanuts and milk and sugar arrayed around her on the counter, a saucepan ready on the stove. 

He catches her in his arms and sets his chin on her shoulder. "Turrón," he croons happily. "You shouldn't have."

"'Course I should, it's your favorite." His mother pauses. "Noah's not allergic, is he?"

"To peanuts? No, no. No food allergies that we know of. Other than the allergy to unfamiliar cuisine." Unhanding her, he steals a stray peanut that survived the grind. "Was I that picky at his age?"

She swats his hand away. "You ate anything anybody put in front of you. He's a little indulged, that boy." She waves at the living room. "There's a whole can of mixed nuts on the table. Quit stealing my ingredients." 

"I'm just here for more coffee," he says. But Celia Cruz is belting _que noche buena para bailar_ from the other room, so he spins his mother in his arms and dances her around the kitchen, humming tunelessly along, until she bends with laughter and fends him off.

"I saw you getting pummeled out there," she says knowingly, returning to the turrón-in-progress. "Battle of the sexes."

He reaches for the coffee pot and his abandoned mug. She must've made a fresh pot; the coffee's still steaming. "Noah and I are doomed."

"You're good with him," she says. "Really good." She pours the milk into the saucepan, then sets down the measuring cup. "You know, I never expected. You were on your own for so long, and now—" 

Her gesture encompasses everything: the two of them in the kitchen, the two outside, the picture-perfect cabin, the freshly fallen snow. All of them together on Nochebuena.

He stirs milk and sugar into his cup. "Too good to be true?"

"I hope not. After Mom died—"

Her eyes shine wetly. He tries to soothe her. "Mami."

"No, just lemme get this out. After Mom died I swore I was gonna tell you, if there was someone, someone special you weren't bringing home, because you thought we wouldn't approve of what they looked like—you should bring them. You know? Life's too short not to spend it with the people we love." 

For a second Rafael's mouth hangs slack. He'd thought he didn't need to hear it, that it didn't matter anymore, moot since the moment he'd understood to whom his heart was given. Doubly so since the moment he'd understood his love to be returned. But maybe it does matter, after all—that if Olivia had been an Oliver, his mother would've opened her arms in welcome still, even agreed to cook Christmas Eve dinner in a foreign kitchen—because the corners of his eyes are blurring, too.

She isn't done. "Olivia is a remarkable woman. She has a beautiful son. I see the allure, I get it, I just want you to happy." She puts her hands on his shoulders. "Happy means being honest with yourself."

He blinks hard, then shakes his head hurriedly. "It isn't like that that." He speaks in a rush. "I'm not giving anything up to be with Liv." 

"No?"

His gaze finds no purchase anywhere. He needs her to believe, to understand that he isn't living a lie, that he wouldn't do that, not to Olivia—not to himself, either. He grapples with the words of admission, even knowing his mother's waiting for them, for some form of them, at least. His hands grip the edge of the counter, not white-knuckled, but red.

"It was never just one or the other," he manages. "For me."

"Well." She eyes him, then covers his nearer hand with hers. "Lucky you."

He feels staggered, as if an ache-inducing weight's been lifted, one he'd almost forgotten was there. "Lucky me."

"I mean, I thought it must be real, all that time you spent mooning."

"I did not moon, I never mooned."

"Sure you didn't. Big puppy dog eyes." His mother smiles. "Remember how you used to complain about her? Then all of a sudden you stopped complaining."

Rafael draws himself up with dignity. He gropes for his coffee and downs it in a final swig. "Excuse me, I'm needed in snowball court."

"Hold on, c'mere. Give your progressive mother a hug."

He obeys her, clinging hard, and pinches his eyes shut before they can blur again. His voice comes out hoarse and small. "I love you, Mom."

"Love you too, baby." She pats the back of his head. "You found a good one. Took you long enough."

"The best things come," says Rafael. He thinks suddenly of the small box in his suitcase, the one he hasn't put under the tree, and pulls back halfway from the embrace. "That reminds me. I need to ask you about abuelita's ring."


	2. Chapter 2

"Dinner in an hour," announces the chef, poking her head out from the kitchen. Olivia glances at the clock on the mantle, fingers on the zipper of her coat. Between the snowball rout and another round of sledding, it's astonishingly after noon. She abandons her plan of going back outside again, and instead sticks her head through the door to shout into the snowy woods.

"Hey guys. Time to come in!"

At Rafael's answering wave she shuts the door, then sheds her snow gear. She pads to the hall closet to hang up her coat. Time for another fire in the fireplace, she thinks, if they're all coming in from the cold. Building it goes faster now that she's practiced, and she sits for a moment admiring her handiwork, poker in hand. 

Rafael's phone is still playing its playlist. Olivia doesn't mind Christmas music, broadly speaking, but the holiday rumba is a little too brassy on the ear. Finally she stalks to the table and presses mute, so there's only the peaceable crackle of the fire. 

Lucía cedes the kitchen to her briefly, long enough for Olivia to make salad—greens and avocado, lightly dressed—and for Lucía to go upstairs to fix her makeup. The back door opens and Noah tromps in, clutching an armful of pine cones, beaming as he sheds snow onto the rug. Rafael shoulders in behind him, hunched and shivering, pink in the face. 

"I brought these," Noah announces, hefting the pine cone collection. "Guess who fell off the sled?"

"You?" Olivia relieves him of the pine cones, then helps him out of his layers. 

"Rafa!"

Bending to take off his boots, Rafael winces. When he pulls off his hat, his hair's mashed and askew. "I think my tailbone's bruised," he mutters, looking piteous.

"Ouch. You want ice on it?"

His look turns balefully aggrieved. Catching hold of the drawstring of his sweatpants, Olivia reels him in, close enough to stroke the bedraggled strands back from his brow. 

"I'm kidding. Come get warm."

They bask for a while by the fireside, listening to Noah rave about the deer he spotted in the woods. Then Lucía reappears, looking all too put together in a red cowl-neck, with gold earrings that flash against her hair. She gives the three of them the eye.

"That's what you're wearing to dinner?"

Abashed at his sweatpants, Rafael shuffles off to shower. Olivia herds Noah upstairs to the loft, into the tiny bedroom with his suitcase tucked by the wall.

"How about you put on your nice sweater? I bet Rafa's wearing his."

"Okay. Wait. Which one?"

She helps him choose. When he's dressed in his best white cable knit, and approximately groomed, she sends him off to entertain himself until it's time to eat. She fetches her bathrobe downstairs, then knocks at the door to the bathroom.

"Um, it'll be a minute," says Rafael from within.

She opens the door. He's out of the shower, still flushed from its heat, standing in front of the mirror—running gel through his hair and inspecting his eyebrows for symmetry, or whatever it is he does. A towel's wrapped around his waist, and another draped around his shoulders. The gold chain of his crucifix glints on his chest. Olivia shuts the door, then sidles behind him. Her hand glides over his terrycloth-clad hip.

"Thought I ought to take a look at that tailbone," she says. "Make sure there's no serious damage."

His eyes meet hers in the mirror. A slow smile overtakes them as Olivia unwraps the towel from his waist. She drapes it beside the sink, then spreads both palms over the bared curves of his ass.

"Can't be too careful," he says, with mock gravity.

She cups two thick handfuls, one cheek per palm. "How's that feel? Sore?"

"Maybe a little." Rafael splays his legs further, adjusting his stance, and leans on the countertop. "Could use some therapeutic massage."

Olivia kneads teasingly, then firmly, and Rafael arches into her hands. She sets her chin on his broad shoulder. Her voice bottoms out to a purr. "Too bad I didn't bring Santa's toybox, huh?"

He nearly chokes. "May I remind you that my mother is on the other side of this wall—"

"Uh-huh."

"—and we're about to celebrate the birth of—" Her finger slips. _"Christ."_

She kisses his shoulder. "Prude." With a final squeeze and a pat she regretfully unhands him, then turns on the shower. She pins her hair up in a claw clip to keep it from getting soaked. Rafael recovers his towel—and his harried modesty—as she strips and steps into the tub. 

"There's no fan," he warns. "It'll fog up the mirror."

"I'll be quick."

The hot water feels good enough that she's tempted to dawdle in spite of herself, if only to steam up the room and Rafael. But it's not worth the risk of being late to his mom's magnum opus dinner. Tomorrow, she thinks, after presents and coffee and brunch, after more romping in the snow, when there's no deadline of any kind—then she can linger, and lure Rafael in with her, and the two of them can take their sweet time. For now she rinses off briskly. When she steps out of the shower, the mirror is solid fog, and Rafael's gone to the bedroom to dress.

She finds him there, perched on the edge of the bed in green sweater and dark wool pants, hair damp but carefully combed. His gaze is distant, unfocused on the wall in front of him. He looks bemused—dazed, even, and it's odd enough to give Olivia pause. 

He glances toward her, then away, then down at his hands where they're curled on his lap.

"I came out to my mom," is what he says.

Olivia goes still. "Wow." She belts her bathrobe and sits down beside him. "How'd that go?"

"It wasn't planned. She maneuvered me into it."

"She already knew." 

"More or less. A little hazy on specifics." He turns to face her, and there's something like black humor in his eyes. "She wanted to remind me how important it is to be true to oneself."

It takes Olivia a minute. "She thought I was your _beard?"_

His rueful expression is answer enough.

"Wow," she says again, because it's hard to know what to feel about that. She can see why he finds it funny, and maybe it is, in part, but part of her isn't laughing at all. "You set her straight?"

His mouth quirks at her choice of words. "I did my best." 

"I wouldn't want her to think I'm some kind of sham."

"She doesn't," says Rafael, sounding sure of it. "It's okay, we're good, I just…never expected to have the conversation. We're a family of talkers but there are things we don't talk about."

"I get that," Olivia says. She clasps his hand in hers, against the warm wool of his trouser leg. When that doesn't feel like enough, she leans against him, hard. "I'm happy for you." 

With a small sound he turns his nose to her shoulder and presses it there, into the thick cotton of her robe. She lets go of his hand only to fold her arm around him, to rock him in tiny, loving increments, back and forth, until he sighs and raises his head.

*

There's a minor meltdown when the chef discovers the kitchen is short on serving dishes. In the end dinner is served buffet-style, lechón and black beans and rice, plátanos maduros and sweet potatoes straight from the stove. Olivia's salad goes on the table, along with Noah's hand-crafted centerpiece: a bowl of the collected pine cones, interspersed with sprigs of fir. 

Olivia fills glasses—sparkling juice for Noah, sparkling rosé for the rest—while the others fill their plates. They all sit down at the table, Bensons on one side, Barbas on the other, and Lucía raises a toast in honor of the night. 

The moment of truth arrives: Noah's fork meets lechón. He chews gingerly, then more heartily. He gulps it down and beams.

"It's good!"

Olivia sags in relief, and covers by reaching for her wine.

"There's a turkey sandwich for you if you don't like it," says Rafael.

"I do like it! Es muy rico!"

"Try the sauce," says Lucía. "It's better with sauce." 

All sauces not on pizza or spaghetti are suspect, never mind that the meat's been marinating in the same stuff for hours. Eyeing the dish of mojo with suspicion, Noah shakes his head. 

"How about a tiny piece." Olivia drizzles a spoonful over a carefully sequestered portion on Noah's plate. "Just to taste. If you don't like it, you can have the rest plain."

Noah glances at Rafael, as if in hopes of reprieve, but Rafael only looks brightly expectant: of course one should try the mojo. Who wouldn't want mojo? He scoops a mojo-drenched forkful into his own mouth and blissfully chews.

With reluctance Noah spears the piece of pork with sauce on it. His face pinches as he puts it into his mouth. 

He doesn't spit, but it's a near thing. _"Yuck."_

"Noah." Olivia puts down her spoon with a clank. "How do you think that makes Tia Lucía feel, after she worked so hard? You know the polite thing to say when you don't like something."

Noah glowers. "I don't _care_ for it," he mutters darkly.

"Well, I'm proud of you for trying," says Lucía, perfectly mild. "How about the plátanos? You like those? "

"They're good!"

Just like that, the threat of a full-fledged pouting fit passes. Maybe the scope of Olivia's relief is foolish, but the prospect of her kid spitting out Lucía's efforts doesn't bear thinking about. Not when they're sharing a table with the woman who raised the best man she knows, who put body and blood and years of love into the making of him. Of course no parent dictates what her grown children become, the lives they live, just or unjust, humane or cruel—Olivia's seen the cases to prove it, and hopes she's living proof herself—but Rafael's not a Barba for nothing. Lucía sets a hell of a bar for raising sons. 

"I've never had sweet potatoes like this," Olivia tells her, scooping a spoonful. "Love it."

"That's a new recipe. Not traditional at all. But so easy! Lime juice, butter, cilantro. Voila."

"That's it?"

"That's it." Lucía casts a knowing look sideways. "Rafi likes 'em sweeter."

Rafael dabs his mouth with his napkin and demurs. "They're very good. Everything's good, Mami. Tastes like Christmas."

It's hard to disagree. The meat's savory and tender, the mojo bright with bitter orange. If it doesn't taste quite like Olivia's idea of the holidays, she can picture a future in which it might, one where the flavors in her mouth meld and bind to memory. Maybe one day Noah won't even remember the bland hams of Christmas past.

"I know it sounds crazy," Lucía's saying, "but that whole time in the kitchen? I swear I could feel Mom watching over my shoulder. Ready to lecture me the minute I goofed."

"Wooden spoon like a gavel," says Rafael. 

"Exactly." Lucía's smiling as she tears up. Rafael abandons his seat briefly to hug her, pressing his cheek to hers. She clings to the crook of his arm before shooing him back to his chair. "Your food's getting cold."

Noah absorbs this talk of departed grandmothers with solemn eyes, but says nothing until Rafael and Lucía go to the kitchen for seconds. He cups both hands around his mouth and whispers.

"What happened to Rafa's grandma?" 

Olivia purses her lips before responding, and keeps her voice down. "She passed away. A few years ago. They both miss her a lot."

"Oh." Noah looks so subdued that she reaches for his curly head to stroke it. 

"You don't have to be sad. It's Christmas Eve, so they're thinking about all the good times they had together. They miss her, but it's good to remember."

Noah goes quiet again as Rafael and Lucía return to the table, but before long he asks for seconds, too. Olivia refills the glasses, and they all eat until their chairs groan under their weight. When his mother reminds him to save room for dessert, Rafael drags a hand down his belly. He expels a heavy breath.

"Might need a breather first."

"What's dessert?" pipes up Noah. "Is it pie?"

But Lucía's giving nothing away. "You'll have to wait and see." She's implacable, even when Noah pleads for a hint. "So Noah, what did you ask for for Christmas?"

She couldn't have picked a better diversion. "Dilophosaurus Outpost Attack!"

"Dilopho-what?"

It's the name of the Lego set he'd set his heart on, and begged for in letter to Santa form. He'd conscripted Rafael to help write it— _'cause you're good at that kind of stuff_. The final draft had been very persuasive. Noah patiently explains the premise of Jurassic World and sequel to the table, despite not having seen the films himself. 

"See, if you said 'Lego dinosaurs,' that I would get," Lucía says. "I'm no spring chicken, Noah, you gotta use words an old lady will understand."

"Speaking of presents," says Rafael, while Noah snickers at the thought of chicken Lucía. "We should talk about that. Tonight or tomorrow?"

Noah's stare veers wildly toward the tree, and Olivia holds back a snigger of her own. "How do you guys do it?" 

"Presents from family on Christmas Eve, presents from Santa in the morning."

"Tonight!" yelps Noah. "Can we? Pleeeease?"

Olivia finds she's willing to go only so far in the name of familial and cultural fusion. "We've always done Christmas morning," she says. "How about we each open one tonight, and save the rest for tomorrow?"

"But Rafa said—!"

Rafael looks from her to Noah, then to his mother. Lucía recuses herself behind her rosé.

"Olivia should decide," she says.

All three of them turn to her. "One tonight," says Olivia firmly. "The rest tomorrow."

Noah slumps, moaning, but youth is resilient; the next minute he's sitting up again, vibrating in his chair. Olivia can already picture him shaking the presents, listening for the telltale jingle of plastic bricks. 

"Do I get to pick which one?"

*

They have to chase Lucía off to keep her from trying to help clean up. At last she throws up her hands—"Fine, fine! I'll call my sister. They always eat early, they're probably done"—and withdraws to the living room with her phone. Noah clears the silverware (which isn't breakable) before being excused to snoop under the tree. 

The kitchen's not even a disaster; Lucía's been tidying as she went, all day. They've almost filled the dishwasher when Olivia catches Rafael frowning at his phone.

It's a work-related sort of frown. "Hey," she says, wiping her hands on a dish towel. "Thought we had an agreement."

 _No work_ was the agreement. They should've made it a blood pact if they wanted the deal to hold. Rafael gives her a mulish look. 

"What are you, the police?" He taps out a brisk message before pocketing the phone. "One of my students had a family emergency during finals. Legitimate, I think. Just making arrangements."

Olivia shakes her head. "Don't let 'em find out you're a softie."

"Me?"

"You." She pokes his after-dinner belly with one finger. "Soft in the middle."

"I'm brutal with baby lawyers. Ask Carisi."

"Oh, I know."

It's the first she's thought about the squad since—was it only yesterday she'd left the precinct? It feels like days. Maybe tomorrow she and Noah will call Uncle Sonny in the bosom of his extended clan on Staten Island, and Aunt Amanda and Uncle Fin. Lucy, too. 

They're all family, of a sort. She'd take a bullet for them. But they all have their own people to be with tonight, people who aren't her and her son. She's getting dangerously hooked on the idea of family that chooses to spend Christmas Eve with her, that doesn't vanish when they resign from the force and her life, or retire and move on.

She and Rafael finish putting away the leftovers. Olivia pauses with the fridge door open, eye caught by the unlabeled bottle next to the corked wine. 

"What's this eggnog-adjacent stuff your mom made?"

"Crema de vie? Bring it out, we'll have some. It's better than eggnog."

Olivia sets the bottle on the counter, then hunts for glasses of appropriate size. "I'm sensing a theme here."

"'Cubans do it better'?" 

"If by 'it' you mean 'copping an attitude.'"

"Oh, we're very good at that."

Lucía calls out from the other room. "Rafi, what happened to the music? Put it back on, we wanna dance!"

For once Rafael's eye-roll is entirely good natured. He disappears to the living room to surrender his phone. A minute later, guitars strum, and Olivia stops with the cupboard open as she recognizes the song. It's the same one Rafael breathed to her in the cradle of deep night, the one that now seems less like memory than dream.

When he comes back to the kitchen, he doesn't quite look at her. "It's not just a lullaby," he says, by way of explanation or excuse. "It's a Christmas song."

Olivia shoulders against him, smiling. He's still avoiding her gaze. "Favorite of yours?"

"It is now."

There's nothing to do then but corral him against the counter in slow motion, step by deliberate step, and kiss him. Nothing to do but draw back, rub their noses until his smile crookedly uncurls, in the way that makes her heart lift like it's buoyed by his dearness, then close her eyes and kiss him again. 

A peal of laughter from the living room distracts them. Together they peer around the corner, only to see Noah being waltzed between sofa and ottoman by his Tia Lucía, past the hearth and the tree, _one-two-three one-two-three,_ in step with the song. Noah's smiling, and Lucia's smiling, and he's giggling as he treads on her toes, swinging their joined hands.

Olivia watches, and the sense of buoyancy doesn't fade. If anything, it broadens; there's no urge to charge at the intruder and pry Noah from her arms. Rafael leans against the door frame, misty-eyed.

"Where's my camera?" he huffs.

The question's rhetorical: his phone's on the coffee table, playing the music for the dance. Olivia thinks about going for hers, but she doesn't need photo or video evidence, not really. What she needs is to impress the moving image on her heart. Not because it won't last, or will prove somehow wrenchingly false. Because it won't do those things. She's ready to be done with dread that it will.

_"Calla mientras la cuna se balancea—"_

Lucía sings about as well as Rafael does, voice cracking at intervals, wobbling off pitch. Noah doesn't care. He giggles when she dips him, and when they get to the chorus, he picks it up, too. He sings better than any of them, in a child's clear voice, high and true.

Watching and listening, Olivia almost doesn't notice Rafael's offered hand. He nudges it toward her, palm up. 

_Really?_ she asks, with eyes alone. _Really,_ he says, likewise, and gives her his best vintage movie star look. It's a little too cute for a smolder, but she's weak to it nonetheless. She puts her hand in his and lets him sway them both out of the kitchen, into the brightness of the other room.

*

The crema de vie is growing on her. It's too rich and too sweet, like eggnog, but when you're sitting on a cushion by a stone hearth, back and shoulders warmed by a crackling fire, it tastes about right. Rafael's fiddling with the playlist on his phone again, brow creased with hyperbolic discontent. Noah's got his new Legos strewn across the coffee table, but he lifts his head at Lucía's call.

"Noah, my dear, could you come help me with the cake?"

Later Olivia thinks she should've known—it should've tipped her off. In the moment she just keeps lounging like a sitting duck, sipping her crema de vie, as Noah leaps up and trots to the kitchen. 

Rafael abandons his phone. He comes to sit beside her on the hearth, hand resting on his left pocket. He's got that keyed-up air about him, the one he used to get before arguments in court. Olivia nudges him with her shoulder, warmly quizzical. 

"What's the matter? Don't like your new socks?"

He wiggles his toes in their argyle, his gift from Noah. "There's one more present," he says. "For you. For tonight. I was gonna wait until tomorrow, but I don't wanna wait anymore." At first he doesn't look at her, and then he does. "It's a very small box. I won't get it out if you think I shouldn't."

Olivia's surprised only for a second. Last month her favorite ring had mysteriously disappeared from her jewelry box, only to mysteriously reappear two days later. Any detective worth her salt would've caught the clue, and it's not as if he's never invited her to make an honest man of him. For them to make honest people of one another. She puts her hand on his thigh and draws it against hers, until their legs gently collide.

"I'll open your very small box," she says.

Rafael sucks in a breath. He takes the box—small, dark and velvet—from his pocket and puts it into her hand. When Olivia pauses before opening, his eyebrow cocks. 

"If you want me on my knees, you know I'm good for it."

Trust him to crack that kind of joke in the middle of his proposal. "Save your aging joints," Olivia tells him, and opens the box. 

The diamond's small, the band slender, engraved with delicate vines. The ring's golden curve catches the firelight, shining in her palm.

"It was my grandmother's," says Rafael. "I had it resized. The setting's a little worse for wear, so if you want something different—"

"I don't."

"There's a chain, too, if you'd rather wear it that way, I wasn't sure—"

"Rafael." 

She grasps his hand in her free hand to hush him. She holds up the ring. The tears that started welling when she opened the box threaten to spill. 

"You wanna do this?" she asks. "You and me?"

"I do."

He knows exactly what he's doing, using those two words, but if there's anything more earnest, more deserving of trust than what's brimming in his face as he speaks them, Olivia's never seen it. She slips the ring onto her finger. It occurs to her too late that he might've wanted to do that part, and she nearly laughs—at herself, at both of them—but Rafael's not complaining. He's looking at her like he can't remember how to breathe.

She takes his hand again. They grasp and cling to one another. It shouldn't be possible to feel both giddy and calm at once, but she manages, and smiles around the tears.

"Okay," she says, a little thickly. "Just tell me when to show up in court."

"Need a license first." His voice is suspiciously hoarse.

"Right." There's a mandatory waiting period, too, come to think of it. Time for sobriety to kick in, and cowardice and self-doubt—but she's done her time with those. She leans into Rafael. He leans back, and she feels like laughing again. "You already ask one of your judge buddies to do the job?"

"Thought I ought to clear it with you." He smiles at their joined hands. "Elana would do it."

"Oh, she's 'Elana' now, huh?" Barth is a Columbia grad. Since Rafael left the DA's office to teach there, they've grown more collegial rather than less. "As long as it's not Bertuccio."

He looks pained. "Please."

They hear a pointed shuffling from the kitchen. A plaintive stage whisper follows: "Can we bring out the cake now?" 

Smiling, Olivia waves Noah over. "In a minute, sweetie. We need to tell you something first." 

He pads toward the fireplace to perch beside her. She puts her arm around him, hugging him close. Before she can even open her mouth again to disclose, Noah spots the ring on her left hand. His eyes bulge.

"Are you guys getting married? _Fi_ -nally?"

In the kitchen doorway Lucía makes a noise like a stifled wail—joyful, maybe, but it's hard to tell—and claps both hands to her cheeks.

"Mami," chides Rafael, as if he's not on the verge of blubbing himself.

Lucía's hands flap like tremulous wings. "Sorry, it's—don't mind me." She clutches at herself, then hurries across the room to kiss them both on the head, first Rafael—"My baby!"—then Olivia. Olivia lets herself be affectionately crushed.

Noah looks from one teary grown-up to another. "Does that mean we can have extra cake?"

*

The plaid easy chair and its ottoman make a comfortable daybed for a seven-year-old. Noah's first to succumb to naptime, in spite of sugar intake. He doesn't even bother with the trek upstairs, just curls up in the chair and conks out. The fire's burning low, so Rafael drapes a blanket over him, then returns to the table, where Olivia—where his _future spouse_ is sipping the decaf they brewed to go with turrón de mani and bizcocho de ron.

"He's got the right idea," he says. "If we're still going to midnight Mass."

"If?"

They'd planned for it, had mapped the route to the nearest Catholic church. Rafael peers out into the woods. Snow's falling again in the flurried darkness, flakes stark white in the windows' glow. It's hours yet until Mass, and least a half hour drive to St. Peter's in the little town of Liberty. A half hour if the roads are good. 

"Your mom wanted to go," says Olivia. "So did you."

He did and does, but his present happiness is so great it feels perilous. He's in no mood to tempt fate to drop the other shoe. "Not if it means off-roading."

"We've got all-wheel drive." She glances at the time on his phone, then gives a comfortable shrug. "Let's see what your mom says. And how bad the snow is in a few hours."

His mother's in the loft bedroom, ostensibly napping. More likely texting her sister and all her closest friends that at last her wayward son's about to become a respectable man. A family man. At his age, too. 

Rafael can't even begrudge her. His grandmother's ring glints on Olivia's hand, and it's hard to escape the dizzy sense that he must've done something impossibly right. Beyond that, there's a sense that's probably closer to truth: that nothing he's done or not done can account for her love, that no one (let alone himself) can possibly be worthy. That love comes or doesn't regardless of the receiver's worth, like grace.

Olivia sinks back in her chair. "If I'm gonna drive us, I should try to get a nap in too, but—" She shakes her head.

He sits down beside her. "Not tired?"

"Too much excitement, I guess." 

It's not his imagination: her look turns sly. He returns it with pure innocence. "My offer's still on the table."

"Which one? Down on your knees?"

"Direct to dreamland," he says serenely, and her eyes laugh their silent laugh.

"The polar express?" 

Emphasis on _pole._ Rafael squints. "Thank you, I will now never be able to watch that film with Noah ever again."

Olivia eases to her feet, then bends to kiss his temple. Her hand smooths over the breadth of his shoulders, provokingly slow. When her fingers close on a fistful of sweater, securing, a foolish thrill pulls through him. He bites down a grin at the sureness of her grip.

"I'll make it up to you," she says, and draws him up to lead him to their shared bed.

**Author's Note:**

> To barsonaddict - I'm so glad you mentioned Lucía in your Santa letter, as it gave me this chance to get to know her better. Happy holidays, and apologies for the wait!
> 
> With thanks to Rís for beta reading, consultation, and menu advice *chef's kiss*
> 
> The music:
> 
> ["Bachata en Navidad"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y-qAAs6kQYY)  
> ["Aguinaldo Antillano"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OyCSqNgycPs)  
> ["A La Nanita Nana"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dcGsGpqief4)
> 
> The author, too, would like Santa to bring Dilophosaurus Outpost Attack.


End file.
